


For The Man Who Has Everything

by teaberryblue



Series: Sparks & Stripes (Earth-3490) [3]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Marvel 3490
Genre: 890fifth, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Angst, Captain America Volume 5, Conversation, Earth-3490, F/M, Fluff, Genderswap, Marriage, Post-Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaberryblue/pseuds/teaberryblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Stark comes home after a failed attempt at retrieving the Winter Soldier.  Steve isn't supposed to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Man Who Has Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Mutual Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278948) by [theLiterator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator). 



> Happy birthday to TheLiterator! 
> 
> Written for Round 10 of [890 Fifth](http://890fifth.tumblr.com), For the Man Who Has Everything...and I haven't been able to think of a better title, so there you go.
> 
> This follows directly after "[A Mutual Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3278948)" and that should probably be read first.

"Miss, I can send someone to take care of--"

"Not necessary, Jarvis," Natasha replied, as she tugged the pearl-grey sheets off the bed, bundling them up into a ball. "I can handle this one."

He looked her over, the concern evident in his careworn face. 

"I need to, J," Natasha said. "Please."

She waited for him to leave, then sat on the edge of the mattress, hugging the ball of sheets like they were a human being. They were Steve's sheets, Steve's old sheets, that had been on his bed before he'd finally given up the pretense of keeping a separate residence. She wouldn't have normally pulled out hand-me-downs for a guest, but she'd thought that maybe Bucky of all people would appreciate that, from everything she'd heard about her.

They were the same shade as the carpet she'd had installed in their bedroom when Steve had moved in. It was one of his favorite colors; he said it reminded him of the sky over New York in the rain. And when the clouds rolled in as her plane touched down at Kennedy, she had decided the color meant homecoming.

She went to the dresser, pulled out the few new, neatly folded items she'd bought, guessing the girl's size from photographs. Soft tee shirts, denim jeans deep dyed with indigo, socks, plain cotton underwear-- just enough that she would have had a wardrobe to start, before Natasha could get her properly fitted with some nice things. She had bought only neutral colors: black, grey, brown, beige. It had been difficult to curb her own natural tendency toward flamboyance, the twitching spark of inspiration to array Steve's friend like a fashion doll, She piled it all in a small suitcase, took the few toiletries from the bathroom and the books from the bookshelf and laid them on top.

She zipped up the bag and laid it on the floor, sitting back down on the bare mattress, hands on her knees, and looked around,

She'd picked a plain, simple room, not too large, painted white, the sort of room that would be easy to decorate to the occupant's taste, with a simple, modern, minimalist wood bed frame, and a dresser, night table, desk and bookshelf to match, all stained with a light gloss finish. With the bedding bundled up, everything bare, it felt cold and uninviting. 

The door opened, and Natasha started, turning toward the sound, hands moving to her sloppily-arranged hair.

It was Steve. She lowered her hands, smiled tiredly. He didn't smile, and his hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment. Natasha hadn't turned the lights on, and his silhouette was framed as a shadow in a door-shaped shaft of light on the floor.

"How was Japan?" He asked. He shut the door, gave the room a cursory look, but didn’t ask her what she was doing in an empty bedroom with a full suitcase on the floor. She supposed that was for the best. 

Natasha slumped a little on the bed. "Disappointing."

Steve chewed on his lower lip. As long as he was being quiet, Natasha couldn't tell what he knew, whether he was angry.

He sat down beside her, reached past her, snatching up the pillow from the bed. It was down, overstuffed and very squishy, and he kneaded at it a bit. "I'm sorry," he said. 

He handed over the pillow, dropping it into her lap, and she hugged it to her chest. 

Steve's arm was around her, his hand on her head, tangled in her hair. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked.

She looked up at him, his blue eyes clear and bright, his straw-colored hair growing out over his ears-- the way Natasha liked it, but too long for Steve. She made a mental note to get out the trimmers; she had yet to convince Steve that a good haircut was worth the cash, and until she did, she wasn’t going to let anyone else touch it.

She shook her head. "It's okay."

His hand trailed down, over her back, along her spine, and she melted into his touch, the familiarity comforting. "Sometimes we try our best," he said, "and things still don't go as planned."

"I'm good at plans," Natasha grumbled. She let herself drop against him, cushioning her head against his side. 

"I know," Steve answered. He gave her a little poke in the side. "And I'm not, and it's something I've always admired you for. But you can't predict every variable."

"I can," she said stubbornly. kicking her heel against the bed frame. "I should have been able to. I got something wrong, and I don't know what it was."

"People," Steve said. "People don't follow any rhyme or reason. You can't predict what they're going to do."

"I can predict _you_ ," Natasha pointed out. "You're easy."

He kissed her cheek. "I know, I know. I'm bland and boring and an crotchety old-fashioned set-in-my-ways stodgy codger who complains about having to walk uphill to school in the snow."

"You're an ass," she said, and she nudged him with her knee. 

"What does that say about your taste?" Steve asked. "You're the one who married me."

He pried her hands away from the pillow and tugged her forward, pulling her into his lap. She straddled his hips with her knees, facing him, and draped her arms around his shoulders. 

“My taste is _impeccable_ ,” she informed him imperiously, and she nipped at his lower lip. 

He licked her nose in retaliation, and finally kissed her, tangling his hands in her hair as he pulled her forward, and then lay back on the bare mattress, dragging her down with him. 

She giggled, but when his back hit the bed, he tugged her close, burying his nose in her hair.

“Sin showed up on the radar,” he said quietly. 

“What?” Natasha asked. “Sin-as-in-Skull’s-Sin?” 

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “It’s not good, Sparks. She’s with Crossbones; the two of them...they’re in...Kansas, I think, Shary said. It's a real mess. Robberies, shootings...it's like she's had her head reprogrammed, or--”

“Shary?” Natasha asked. “Wait, Steve, is SHIELD...don’t tell me, after all the hell SHIELD’s put you through, they called you in for--” 

“Shh,” Steve said, and he kissed the top of her head. 

“No, I _won’t_ ‘shh,’” Natasha snapped. “Look, I get it, you want to help Sharon, after what happened with Bucky and all, but SHIELD can't just snap their fingers every time they want you back."

"I'm helping Sharon, not SHIELD," Steve said stubbornly. "She's-- Sparks, she's gotten the short end of the stick for too long. Nothing ever goes her way, and it's never her fault, and I feel like--"

"You owe her for getting married when you thought she was dead," Natasha interrupted, bitterly.

"That's not fair, Sparks," Steve said, sounding hurt. "I've never once had second thoughts about us. Things wouldn't have worked out with Shary, and we both know it. We were always on and off: it was too--"

"So were _we_ ," Natasha pointed out quietly. "I should know, considering I was the one you were seeing when the two of you were _off_."

Natasha sighed and rubbed her forehead. "This isn't what I-- I'm not jealous; you know I’m not. It’s not about Sharon. If she asked for anything else, I'd be there right along with you. But I don't like you getting reeled into SHIELD business again. _Stripes_ , for once, please, for just once, if you could be a little more pragmatic than idealistic…” 

Steve gave her a sad look, then, suddenly, smiled. "That's what I have you for, Sparks," he said. "To talk sense to me when you know I won't see it."

"You're going to Kansas," Natasha observed. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact.

"I want to know what this is about, Sparks," Steve said. "I need to...anyway, I need to do something to get my mind off Bucky. Otherwise, I'm gonna spend all my time thinking about her; I'm gonna--"

Natasha felt a twinge of guilt. "You know I'm not gonna tell you what to do, Stripes," she said softly. "But I'll be fucked if Hill tries to use all this to drag you back into the fold without any kind of reconciliation."

"Won't happen," Steve answered firmly. 

He shifted, so that he was lying entirely on the bare mattress, and she rolled into place at his side, one leg slung over his thigh.

Steve took a breath, rubbed at his head, and finally rested his hands on Natasha's back, tucking them along the curves of her collarbone.

"I'm there for me," he said. "And for Sharon. Hill knows I'm Fury's man, and that's not changing. And if I can leverage this to use SHIELD intel to find Bucky..."

Natasha looked away. "Use my Intel," she said. "Mine's better than SHIELD's." 

"Be honest with you," Steve answered, "I wasn't sure I had the clearance."

Natasha tensed. "You always have clearance, Stripes."

"Is she...okay?” he asked. 

She finally relaxed, resting against Steve’s chest, nestling her head beneath the crook of his chin, and she pulled one of his hands away from her back, twining her fingers through his. “She’s like a stray dog,” she answered. “Biting the hand that feeds her because she doesn’t know if they’re going to kill her the minute she’s complacent.” 

Steve was silent, but he moved his fingertips in little circles over Natasha’s scalp, then down her neck, across her shoulders, his hands so large the two of them covered the breadth of her back. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because you would have wanted to be there,” she answered. “And I wasn’t sure she would have come.” She felt Steve’s throat tighten. “I needed to do something,” she said. “I couldn’t-- they would have gone after both of us, if it had been anything they could trace back to me. I was telling you the truth, when I said I needed to stay out of it.” 

She bit her lip. “And I hate saying no to you.” 

“But she’s okay?” Steve repeated. 

Natasha sucked in her breath as she tried to decide on the right response. “I think she will be. I think...Red _knew_ her, from Russia. I think they have a history. Red says she needs to do this in her own time. Red thinks she’ll come back.” 

“And you?” Steve asked. His hands slid down to her waist, resting there. “What do you think?” 

“I was gonna take the suitcase and leave it somewhere she could take it with her,” she answered. “I’m thinking, if you feed a stray dog, eventually it comes inside. You keep feeding it, and maybe it’ll let you bathe it.” 

“Hm,” Steve said, his chest puffing beneath her. 

“You don’t like my metaphor?” Natasha asked. She pulled herself up, leaning her arms over Steve’s chest, resting her chin on her hands so she could look into his eyes. 

"When did you ever have a dog?" Steve asked. "I've never had a dog; I wouldn't know about dogs."

She snorted, and dropped a kiss on his lips. "You want a dog?" She asked. "We could get a dog; it'd give me something to cuddle that isn't so smelly and doesn't make so much noise."

Steve kissed her back, and then licked her cheek with a wet, sloppy slurp. 

“Fair point,” Natasha said. “And you eat as much as a dog.” 

“I’m insulted,” said Steve. “I eat _far_ more than a dog.”

“We could get a really big dog,” Natasha teased, though internally, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was offering. She wasn’t a dog person. She’d never be a dog person. The idea of taking care of a living organism that needed her to feed it and water it and walk it was _terrifying_. “Like, a Great Dane or a Saint Bernard or--” 

He smiled, shook his head. “I don’t want a dog, Sparks.” 

“Good,” she said, but then she shut her mouth, looking at the expression on his face. He was biting down on his lip, his eyes glancing off to the side, as if he were trying to see something that was just out of view. 

“I--After everything with Bucky...I know it’s crazy...” 

He swallowed, shut his eyes for a moment, opened them. “I kind of think I want a kid.” 

And Natasha felt her heart, her new, healthy heart, her less-than-a-year-old Extremis-enhanced heart drop out of her ribcage, replaced with something freezing and hollow and asphyxiating. 

She breathed, just to be sure she could do it. 

“I’m not asking you to say yes,” Steve said, his words quiet, calm, practiced, as if he’d been expecting this, all of this, as if he had known he would have to tell her. “I know we can’t, not really. I just can’t stop thinking--” 

He trailed off, and the chill slowly spread over her body, from her heart to her arms to her hands, and when her fingers felt as cold as ice to her, she squeezed his hand. “Well, hell, Stripes.”


End file.
